by Kyle Mills
Bahame entered with the same young boy and three guards that he’d used to put Sarie in the cage with them. The system the African had devised was simple, but also all but foolproof: the boy, unarmed and too small to use for cover, unlocked the cage while the guards set themselves up well out of reach with guns at the ready. Undoubtedly, there were additional men strategically posted in the passageway, turning it into a hopelessly constricted shooting gallery.
Smith supposed it was to be expected. No one was going to be happy about being put in a cage with one of the victims of the parasite—particularly after sitting a few feet away watching what it was going to do to them. Even the gentlest soul could be counted on to risk the most suicidal opportunity to escape.
“What now, Caleb?” Howell said, approaching the bars.
The African smiled and stepped aside as Mehrak Omidi and a tall man in a spotless white turban and galabiya entered. His skin gleamed like obsidian, as did his eyes as they scanned the room. Definitely not one of Bahame’s followers. Almost certainly from Sudan.
“Who’s he?” Smith said.
Omidi didn’t acknowledge the question, instead watching as the man rolled out the prayer rug he was holding and knelt.
Bahame seemed barely able to contain his impatience, fidgeting like a child in church as the man prayed.
“I’d like to show you why you will never win,” Omidi said when the man stood again and swept aside the plastic in front of the woman’s cage. The bars clanged dully when she stretched an arm through.
The Sudanese used a bejeweled dagger to put a long cut his forearm and then held the wound out to the woman.
He wasn’t expecting her sudden burst of strength and was pulled hard into the bars as she clawed at him. Blood spattered his arm and he was forced to grab her hair with his free hand to prevent her from biting him. They fought like that for a full thirty seconds before he finally managed to pull away, his weight and the slickness of sweat and blood finally trumping her superior strength.
He was clearly shaken by his experience and kept his eyes on the woman as he retreated to the sound of her frustrated screams.
Omidi pointed at De Vries. “Tend to Dahab’s wound.”
The old doctor looked to be on the verge of collapsing from fear, but he managed to pull on a pair of surgical gloves and keep his hand from shaking too much to suture.
Bahame grunted and pointed to their cage, prompting the boy with the key to approach and release the lock.
“Dr. van Keuren,” Omidi said. “Please come out.”
She pressed her sweat-soaked body a little tighter to Smith’s. “I think I’ll stay here if it’s all the same to you.”
“You know what will happen to you if you stay. I’m offering you a way out of here. I’m offering you freedom.”
She just shook her head.
Howell had the tip of the saw blade between his fingers, and he turned his hand subtly so that Smith could see the rest of it running up his forearm. A burst of adrenaline throbbed in Smith’s head, further clouding it. The Brit wasn’t suggesting an escape attempt—that was pointless. He was offering to put a quick and painless end to Sarie van Keuren.
“No…,” Smith stammered. Suddenly, it was impossible to separate her from Sophia. Impossible to separate this day from the one he’d watched the woman he loved die.
Omidi let out a frustrated breath and pointed to De Vries, who was winding a bandage around Dahab’s arm. “Kill the old man.”
One of the guards redirected his aim, and Sarie jumped toward the open door to their cell. “Stop!”
The Iranian just smiled and held a hand out to her.
* * *
THE SUDANESE SHOVED Sarie and De Vries into the back of a canvas-covered military transport as Omidi looked on. Her companions were still alive—a loose end that infuriated him, but one that he would have to tolerate for the moment. They were formidable men, but the chance that they could escape their prison and stay ahead of Bahame’s men in unfamiliar terrain was unlikely in the extreme. Particularly with time running out so much more quickly than they imagined.
“You remember our agreement?” Bahame said as Omidi started toward the cab of the truck. “You will give me whatever the woman discovers.”
“Of course, my good friend. We fight for the same thing. The freedom of our countries.”
That seemed to please the African, and Omidi accepted his hand, counting on the darkness to hide his disgust. Bahame put his own desires before those of God—something he would be made to pay dearly for.
The Iranian climbed into the truck and started the engine, putting a hand through the open window in a respectful salute as he pulled away.
Bahame glowed red in the taillights and Omidi waited until his image disappeared from the side mirror before pulling out a small GPS unit and switching it on. The signal would transmit the coordinates of Bahame’s camp to a Ugandan military force waiting some two hundred kilometers to the southeast.
In a way, it was regrettable. Smith and Howell didn’t deserve the quick death that he was giving them. No, they deserved to die like their countrymen soon would: insane and bleeding.
51
Northern Uganda
November 27—2153 Hours GMT+3
JON SMITH HAD TAKEN over holding the lock and Howell was sawing again, though they both knew their time had run out. The infected woman hardly moved anymore, even when their eyes met through the spattered plastic. She’d be dead soon, and that meant the parasite killing her would need a new host.
Footsteps became audible in the passageway and Howell shoved the blade down the back of his pants as they moved away from the bars. A moment later, Bahame and the team he’d so meticulously trained to shuttle people in and out of the cells appeared.
“I’ll allow you to choose who goes in with her first, Doctor. You or your good friend Peter?”
Howell just shrugged. There was no way he was going to spend the last few hours of his life lying in a muddy cage losing his mind. He would undoubtedly choose to go down in a futile last charge. The question in Smith’s mind was, would he do the same? The thought of a few quick rounds to the chest had become strangely comforting over the time they’d been imprisoned there, but he was a survivor by both nature and training. Could he knowingly run straight at the barrel of a loaded AK-47?
“I’m sorry,” he said, clapping Howell on the shoulder. “I think this may have been one adventure too many.”
The Brit smiled. “I told you men like us don’t get old. We just—”
The unmistakable whup of a bomb detonating was followed quickly by three more, shaking the ground violently enough that Smith had to put a hand against the rock wall to keep his balance. Muffled automatic-rifle fire started a moment later, along with a string of shouted orders from Bahame as he tried to get to the passageway leading outside.
Another explosion sounded and Smith threw his arm in front of his face as part of the ceiling collapsed, kicking up a choking cloud of dust that temporarily obscured everything around them. He lunged for the bars, hoping they’d been loosened by the blast, but Howell yanked him back just as the woman who had been imprisoned next to them collided with the rusted steel.
“Watch your eyes and any cuts!” Smith yelled as they pressed against the back of the cell in an attempt to stay clear of the blood running down her outstretched arm.
It took only a few seconds for her to determine that they were out of reach, and she turned, rushing through the haze toward the other men in the chamber. Bahame had fallen and was just getting back to his feet when he saw her coming. One of the guards and the boy were already gone, and the last man was going for the passageway when Bahame grabbed his arm and spun him into the woman. A joyful screech erupted from her when they collided—the sound of endless, unbearable frustration finally being released.
The young guard cried out to Bahame as she flailed at him with crushed hands, but the man he revered as a god was already disappearing up the p
assageway.
The rumble of the fighting outside was suddenly lost in the deafening static of a rifle on full automatic and bullets ricocheting off stone. Smith and Howell both dove to the ground as the guard finally managed to get control of his weapon and press the barrel to the woman’s chest. She jerked wildly as he pulled the trigger, finally going limp and sliding to the ground.
Smith jumped to his feet and rammed his full weight against the bars. Despite the considerable damage to the cave, they didn’t budge.
“Hey!” he called to the blood-spattered guard staring down at the woman’s body. The desperation in his eyes was powerful enough to be visible even through the swirling dust. Powerful enough to use.
“Hey!” Smith shouted again, trying to get his voice to rise above the sound of the escalating battle outside. “Do you speak English?”
The young man looked at the passageway leading out and then back at Smith. He gave a short nod but otherwise seemed paralyzed.
“I’m a doctor. You heard Bahame say it himself. This isn’t magic. It’s just an infection. I can cure you.”
“You… You can help me?” came his heavily accented reply.
“Yes,” Smith lied. “You just need to let me out.”
The man looked up the passageway again, unsure what to do.
“Bahame ran like a woman. You saw the fear in him. He has no power over this. I do.”
Western medicine commanded a substantial amount of respect with most Africans, and fortunately for him this man was no exception.
“Get back,” he said, aiming his rifle at the lock and firing a controlled burst. Smith kicked the door and took a deep breath of the thick air. They were out. Probably only to die in the fighting outside, but at least they’d go down swinging beneath an open sky.
The guard trained his gun on him and nodded toward the medical instruments strewn across the ground. “You do it. You cure me.”
“I need—”
“No more talk!” he shouted, aiming his weapon directly between Smith’s eyes. “You cure me now. I want to go home. To my village. To my family.”
A blast came a little too close, and Smith ducked involuntarily, looking up at a wide crack opening above them. They didn’t have time for this.
He dropped to his knees and rummaged around, finally turning up a syringe. When he stood again, he saw that the man was so preoccupied by the thought of ending up like the woman at his feet that he hadn’t noticed Howell slipping silently up behind him. The Brit had decided to minimize any bloodletting by opting for a softball-sized rock in place of the saw blade. Smith fussed with the syringe, keeping the attention of the young man as Howell closed in.
Then it was over. The guard, who had undoubtedly been kidnapped by Bahame as a child, would never go back to his village. He would never again see his family.
Smith scooped up the dead man’s gun and followed Howell into the passageway. It took only a few seconds to reach the mouth, and they pressed themselves to opposite sides, trying to make sense of the chaos beyond.
Three helicopters were visible, lit by the flash of their cannons as they mowed down everything in their path—trees, fleeing soldiers, children. The fighter planes that had carried out the initial rocket attacks were retreating south, but Smith wasn’t convinced they’d seen the last of them.
Broken, burning bodies were everywhere, and, suddenly leaderless, the surviving soldiers scrambled for open crates of weapons that they seemed unclear how to use.
Smith crossed to Howell and shouted over the din. “We need to find our truck. Omidi’s got enough of a head start that it’s the only thing fast enough to catch him.”
The Brit didn’t seem to hear, instead scanning the destruction in front of them.
“Peter! Are you—”
“There!” the Brit said, pointing to the west side of the clearing. A small group of soldiers were gathered in a tight formation, moving awkwardly along the edge of the jungle. Smith focused on them and immediately spotted what his companion found so interesting: the graying hair of Caleb Bahame glowing in the firelight as he tried to escape the inevitable result of making deals with the Iranians.
Howell took off across the clearing without a thought, dodging through bodies and confused soldiers before scooping up a machete lying across a stump. Smith cursed under his breath and followed, holding the gun he’d taken at the ready despite the fact that he didn’t know if there was any ammunition left in the clip.
Fortunately, the people around him were more interested in survival than in two running white men, and Smith crashed into the jungle a few seconds behind Howell and Bahame.
When he came to the edge of a much smaller clearing than the one they’d just abandoned, he stopped to look for unfriendlies and was shocked when Howell just charged into the open without breaking stride. On the western rim of the glade, a vague outline of three young soldiers was visible in front of what looked like a carport constructed of vines and leaves. Beneath it, the truck they’d bought in Kampala suddenly lit up.
Bahame was already behind the wheel, and the familiar whine of the starter was audible as he tried to get the engine to turn over. Smith wasn’t paying attention, though, instead focusing on the muzzle flashes from the frightened boys trying to line up on the crazed white man bearing down on them with a machete.
Smith squeezed off a short burst just over their heads, relieved that the clip wasn’t empty.
“Run!” he shouted, waving them off.
They didn’t, though, instead continuing to fire wildly in Howell’s direction. None of the shots seemed to be getting within twenty feet of him, but there was no telling when someone would get lucky.
Smith switched the gun to semiautomatic and winced when he put a round into the chest of a kid who, in America, would have just started high school. The two surviving boys decided they’d had enough, and one ran east along the edge of the trees, finally disappearing into them on what was hopefully his way home. The other took a less advantageous route behind the Land Cruiser that Bahame was slamming into reverse.
The rear bumper caught him in the legs, pulling him under the tires as Bahame tried to get to a narrow dirt track leading into the jungle. Smith squeezed off a careful shot just as the cult leader found first gear. The round shattered the driver’s-side window a split second before Howell collided with the door and punched through what was left of the glass.
There was a muzzle flash from inside the car, and the Brit fell away, landing on his back in the dirt. Smith got off another shot, but it passed harmlessly by Bahame and punched a hole in the right side of the windshield. The African looked in his direction, realizing that the next shot was going to kill him. He ducked down and threw the passenger door open, sliding out and vanishing into the darkness.
“Peter! Are you all right?”
The SAS man was just making it back to his feet when Smith came up alongside. Miraculously, he hadn’t been hit, but there were powder burns on his face, and his eyes were tearing badly.
“Can you see?” Smith said, checking the sky for attack choppers before pulling open one of Howell’s lids to look for damage.
“Yeah, I can see,” he said, jerking away. “I’m fine.”
There was no time to argue, so Smith pulled open the Land Cruiser’s door and slid behind the wheel. “Keys are still in it and it’s got a full tank. Get in. I’ll drive.”
Instead, Howell backed away and picked up the machete he’d dropped. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I’ll catch up.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Peter? Get in the damn car.”
“I’m sorry, Jon.”
“You’re sorry? I didn’t bring you here to settle a personal vendetta. Omidi’s got the parasite and someone with the expertise to weaponize—”
“Don’t lecture me about personal, Jon. I’d have hated like hell doing it, but we both know you should have let me take care of Sarie back in that cage. You’re on your own, mate.”
52
Northern Uganda
November 27—2226 Hours GMT+3
PETER HOWELL JUMPED OVER a rotting log and then slowed when a group of Bahame’s soldiers darted in front of him. None took a shot, instead scattering and disappearing in a chorus of panicked shouts.
Their deity-driven command structure had collapsed, and the forces attacking them weren’t the unarmed villagers they were used to. As near as he could tell, the entire Ugandan air force was overhead, unloading the country’s stockpile of rockets and machine-gun rounds. Behind him, the jungle was on fire, sending an impenetrable wall of flame nearly a hundred feet into the hazy, chemical-scented air.
Most of Bahame’s followers would be running east toward the river. It was the easiest terrain, and the water would act as a firebreak, but it was also a fatal error. They were clearly being flushed, and the Ugandans would have troops dug in on the far shore—something those terrified children wouldn’t discover until the water was over their heads.
Howell spotted a streak of blood on a leaf and angled left, picking up speed again. The wind was with him for now, but if it shifted he could find himself wandering aimlessly in a cloud of choking, opaque smoke. He was too close to let that happen.
The sound of helicopter rotors became audible behind him, and he ignored it until he could feel the thump of them in his chest. The people he’d seen a few moments ago were being targeted, and he was forced to throw himself to the ground as the nose gun opened up. Rounds arced over his head, bringing branches as thick as two inches down on top of him as the gunner refined his aim. The cries of children sounded for a moment and Howell found himself wishing them a quick death—not out of sympathy, but expedience. He didn’t have time to be pinned down here. Bahame was on the move.
His wish was answered, and he ignored a pang of guilt as the screams went silent and the helicopter moved off. The trail continued—Bahame was obviously bleeding badly from the cut he’d suffered when Smith shattered his window. Still, the farther he got from the firelight, the harder he would be to track. Howell knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before the trail disintegrated into the deepening gloom.
